Page 2 of Ruthless Arrangement

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I find my assigned desk,a small gray island in the swirling sea of the newsroom. Tucked away near the back, flanked by towering filing cabinets and a pillar plastered with old union notices. Functional, anonymous, perfect for fading into the background. I sink into the standard-issue office chair. The Varela file lands, its physical weight nothing compared to the burden of its contents and the questions swirling around how it got there.

The Publisher. Why would the Publisher, someone more concerned with ad revenue than deep-dive investigations, hand a rookie the most dangerous target in the city? It makes no sense.Wells’s reluctance, his explicit statement I wasn’t his choice—the words ring through my mind.Am I being set up? Thrown to the wolves for some unseen political maneuvering upstairs? Or is it simpler? Did they genuinely believe my academic background made me suited for this, unaware of the personal firestorm Varela’s name ignites within me?

“You look like you went ten rounds with Wells and lost.”

I jump, startled. A woman stands beside my desk, holding out a steaming paper cup. She has keen, intelligent eyes that seem to take everything in, short dark hair in a stylish bob, and an air of calm competence striking in the surrounding frenzy.

“Uh, something like that,” I manage, accepting the coffee. Its warmth seeps into my stiff hands. The coffee itself tastes burned, institutional. “Thanks. I’m Lea Song.”

“Sienna Park,” she replies, pulling over an empty chair and sitting, lowering her voice. “And you didn’t lose. You just got handed the grenade with the pin already pulled.”

I blink, surprised by her directness and apparent knowledge. “You know about Varela?”

Sienna nods, her expression serious. “Wells pulled me aside. Assigned me as your handler, for lack of a better term. Unofficially.”

“My handler?”The term sounds illicit.

“Look,” Sienna leans closer, her voice dropping further, compelling me to lean in. “Wells doesn’t trust this. The Publisher giving Varela to a rookie on day one? Especially when the order comes directly from the Publisher, who wouldn’t normally hand out the assignments to junior journalists? It stinks. He thinks you’re being set up to fail, or worse, being fed to Varela.”

Her words solidify my churning suspicions. “So, what’s your role in this?”

“To watch your back,” Sienna says bluntly. “Help you navigate the inner secrets to investigating high society in this city. I’ve been here five years, doing photography, but I’ve covered the crime and politics intersection. I know the players, the landscape. Wells wants me to provide intel, whatever you need. But, and this matters, we keep our arrangement, and the real depth of our work on Varela, completely off the radar. Especially from the top floor.”

A handler. A secret ally.Relief wars with suspicion.Why would this seasoned reporter agree to babysit a newbie on a suicide mission? Is this another layer of the game?

Sienna seems to read my hesitation. “Look, Lea, I heard about your father. Getting pushed out for doing his job too well. It was bullshit. Maybe Wells feels guilty, maybe he just hates seeing the Publisher play games with reporters’ lives. He asked me to help, and I said yes. Varela needs exposing. But you need to survive doing it.”

The mention of my father, the quiet understanding, chips away at my reserve. Maybe I am not entirely alone in this.

“Okay,” I say, the word feeling small. “Okay. Thank you, Sienna.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she warns, her gaze sweeping the bustling newsroom. “First rule: assume everyone is watching. Listening. Varela has ears everywhere. City Hall, CPD, probably even in here.”

She glances at the Varela file clutched in my lap. “We can’t plan a strategy here. Too many eyes.” Her gaze flickers around the open-plan chaos, lingering a split second on a figure near the elevators, then snaps back. “Let’s grab a proper coffee. There’s a place half a block away.”

The thought of escaping the overwhelming noise, of processing with someone who understands the stakes, is appealing. “Yes. Please.” I gather my things, reaching for the file.

“And Lea?” Sienna’s voice is crisp, stopping me. “That file? Never let it out of your sight. Ever. Consider it fused to your hand.”

The danger Wells described suddenly feels real. Caution isn’t just smart; it is survival. I tighten my grip on the folder, its cardboard edges digging into my fingers.

The elevator ride down feels like descending into a pressure cooker. Sienna, leaning against the cool metal wall, doesn’t waste time. “Second rule: trust no one. Cops, sources, colleagues. Verify everything. Twice. Varela’s network isn’t just wide; it’s deep. He builds loyalty through fear and favor.”

The doors open onto the skyscraper’s lobby with its polished marble, soaring ceilings. The newsroom’s frantic energy is replaced by hushed, reverberating calm. It feels like crossing a border, still potentially dangerous, but masked by expensive surfaces.

“He owns pieces of legitimate businesses all over,” Sienna continues, voice low but clear, as we walk toward the massive revolving doors. “Restaurants, real estate, distribution. Fronts, mostly.”

We approach the imposing glass and steel mouth of the revolving doors. Michigan Avenue vibrates beyond. A river of taxis and pedestrians under a gray sky threatening more rain. “Decent café around the corner,” Sienna says, nodding left.

My mind swirls with all the new information and questions: the Publisher’s motive, Wells’s distrust, Sienna’s sudden guardianship, Varela’s reach. Distracted, I push into an empty section of the heavy glass door as it begins its slow turn.

And then I freeze.

Coming through the adjacent section, moving with unnerving calm, is Nico Varela himself.

Time stretches. My eyes lock with his through the curved glass. Not movie-star handsome. His hair shaped in a unique style, blond on top, dark on the sides, and pulled back into a tiny man-bun. His face is too sharp, angular, his presence predatory. His jaw-dropping fit body, way too fit for someone in his forties, radiates power, pulling the air taut. Dressed in an impeccable charcoal suit, he looks less like a businessman, more like a panther poured into expensive fabric.

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